Passion or Passivity: What Will You Pursue?

Last Friday I flipped through stations on my tired 2004 car radio and didn’t like the music, so I settled on a news program. Four women discussed Bitcoin and cryptocurrency. Normally any financial conversation would make my ears blur in confusion, and a blanket would cover my disinterested brain. But for some reason I couldn’t flip the channel; I was captivated by these women and their zeal discussing blockchain technology and its future. These women cared about something so foreign to me. I respected their focus. Their passion.

Especially now, after experiencing a ton of life, seeing injustices, and witnessing these tumultuous times…one would bet we all feel passionate about something. Seeing videos and photos of students protesting gun violence in schools gave me hope that people are fighting for what matters. But I’m just sitting on the sidelines, more like in my comfy La-Z-Boy recliner, and hoping that someone else is fighting for my causes.

Should we all be fighting for the issues near and dear to our hearts? How does deeply caring translate to actual action? What stirs up your passions enough to do something?

Without taking a breath I could list the issues that make my heart beat faster. Aside from reading articles and books, posting and liking on facebook, sending letters to politicians via ResistBot, and having spirited chats with friends and my kids…I’m not doing anything. Does being a voter and a concerned citizen not suffice anymore? I get angry when politicians tweet “thoughts and prayers” after innocent people are murdered because condolences are not enough…politicians need to DO something. But am I no better?

In 2000 friends and I did an AIDS charity bike ride from Boston to NYC. The experience was an explosive effort; hundreds collectively encouraged the cyclists along the way. I felt exhilarated being part of a greater good—joining together for 3 days of supportive and hopeful joy. So I thought—maybe I could get out-of-shape me to find something like that again. When I googled charity bike rides I found hundreds of opportunities. You can pretty much pedal for any cause: literacy, Alzheimer’s, childhood hunger, cancer research…the endless list gave me hope.

During the recent snow day my kids and I watched Jumanji: Welcome to the Jungle. The characters get trapped in a video game and have to replace a jewel in a jaguar statue to go home. Each person is given three lives—which are tracked as tattooed lines on their arms. Who knew I’d listen to Kevin Hart and take his words so seriously? “We all get one life; decide how you’re going to spend it.”

So whether you spend that one life volunteering, giving money, protesting, contacting politicians, cycling for a cause, pursuing cryptocurrencies, or running for office—if you feel the burning passion to make your voice heard…many outlets and opportunities exist. Seek them. Do something. Get up from the La-Z-Boy and act with purpose before that passion fizzles into excuses and powerless pleasantries.

P.S. Yesterday I took my own advice and attended the inspiring and hopeful March for our Lives rally in West Chester, PA. For many reasons I’m glad I did—but mostly because I was in awe by the students who spoke with poise, determination, and emotion. They reminded the thousand who attended that we all have something at stake in securing the safety of our children in schools. I urge you to get involved in a cause that gives you goosebumps and keeps you awake at night. With your energy and effort you can make a difference.

Tact or Friction?

Over the past month friends and I have discussed our aging parents. We agonized over a dad’s Parkinson’s disease, moving a dad into assisted living, and a mom’s heart problems/treatments. My smart, sensitive friends and I realize that we will be challenged by similar issues in a few decades. So when I googled the top aging issues to see what else we’d face—(osteoporosis, arthritis, diabetes)-- I was surprised that one wasn’t listed: the lack of a filter. Think of that curmudgeonly, crusty uncle who thinks he can say whatever he wants because he’s already lived his life.

I’m reading the biography of the Bouvier women which highlights the sometimes contentious relationships among Janet, Jackie, and Lee. Mom Janet’s characteristic flaw was never holding back any criticism of her high profile daughters. Even as Jackie Kennedy walked down the aisle to marry Aristotle Onassis Janet whispered to Jackie, “Don’t do it. It’s not too late to back out.” As I turn the pages it’s evident how Janet’s consistent strong words affected Jackie and Lee throughout their lives.

Which got me to think: as we get older is it more important to use tact or even make up something supportive to maintain a harmonious relationship? Just how hurtful can words be?

Last weekend I saw my friend’s son as Henry Higgins in a middle school production of My Fair Lady. Aside from being wowed by the many detailed lines he memorized for the very long show, I was fixated on one of the main themes: that words—and how you say them—can transform a person from being a lowly flower seller to a high society lady. How Eliza Doolittle learned to speak from Higgins truly did shape her life. Language matters.

What if we all paid more attention to the actual words we say—and the delivery of them? Would the world be a nicer, more loving place? Or would it create a fake version of reality if people aren’t being truthful?

Personally I have been bruised by stinging words said to me, phrases forever scarred in my brain—thus straining relationships and making me more conscious of trying to stay mum when angry. When pushed to say something I usually side with tact…or opt for silence in order to avoid conflict, keeping in my true feelings. Yet occasionally the imperfect mom in me explodes—just like when Eliza Doolittle reverts to the Cockney in her, just like Janet Auchincloss domineering her daughters-- and I can see first-hand the ripple of words rattling my kids. And I try to rebound to my vow of remaining kind and supportive to my children.

Osteoporosis may weaken our bones as we age, but our resolve to watch our words should stay strong. I do believe tact can avoid friction. Language is powerful ammunition—for good and bad. As Doolittle sings, “Wouldn’t it be loverly” if at any age we stopped to consider what we say and how we say it?

Ring in the Old Me

Two years ago my daughter decluttered her room and put ribbons and trophies in a box to discard. I was shocked she would dispose of memories and accomplishments. Her response as she looked at my sappy eyes, “Mom, I can take a picture of them.” On the opposite side of the spectrum my second born has created a shrine in his room and never wants to trash anything.

I’d like to consider myself somewhere in the middle of my two oldest. Ideally, at this age when my entire household collects SO much in terms of paper and unessential things…I’d REALLY like to be more minimalist, unattached to possessions.

Is it crazy to be attached to material objects? Especially when we know we’re passing through this life and can’t take them with us when we die?

I was shocked this year at how hard I took losing an object that I didn’t realize held so much meaning.

In November I lost my college ring. I remember the day I lost it. I treated myself to a massage, put it in my wallet, and reminded myself, “I can’t forget it when I’m done or I’ll lose it.” Of course, that relaxed feeling post-rub down soon became hurried thoughts of to do’s, and I zipped out of the spa.

Two weeks later I looked for my ring, and it was gone. Immediately I felt an emotional hit, like a sucker punch. Memories flooded my heart. A collage of undergrad moments spun through my mind. And I reached for my tissues. It wasn’t just a gold signet ring missing; I felt like I lost four unbelievable years, a proud association with my college, friends, and professors, and, even though I didn’t want to admit, a huge chunk of my youth—gone.

I looked on the Balfour website and thought that even if I wanted to spend the money, I couldn’t really replace that ring. The one with the tiny scratches. The one I’ve worn off and on for 23 years.

It’s not like when I die this ring will mean anything to my kids. That’s when I started looking around my house full of stuff and thought: I promise to purge, dispose of dust collectors, and clear clutter. Only keep objects that bring joy. Every article and quotation about possessions make people who collect and covet sound hollow, like they’re missing the spiritual, higher value of relationships, experiences, and moments, especially amidst an American culture of consumerism and consumption. I am not like that, I thought. Things in my life aren’t most important to me.

Yet three months later when I found the ring in my car—an energy returned. Maybe this object, a possession with symbolic meaning, possessed some of that twenty-one year-old spirit. I also realized that even when those minimalist urgings surface, there is value in having things that inspire, remind, and tell our lives’ unique story. These valuables can be like an old friend—and there is a treasure in that.